Clint Eastwood
by saisei.shinsei
Summary: A collection of Shassie songfic drabbles done fore an ipod-shuffle-challenge. Gorillaz: Clint Eastwood: Lassiter hovered over a precipice, the endless emerald turmoil sloshing beneath him like a great glass of wicked absinthe, equal parts cloyingly...SLAS


**Title:** Clint Eastwood  
**Author:** scathingsarcasm  
**Rating:** T, for safety; a little gore, a little cursing, but mostly harmless.  
**Pairing:** Shassie  
**A/N:** Howdy, y'all. So I did one of those ipod-shuffle prompt thingies. And before anyone flames me, I'm from NJ and have lived there my whole life, so shush! There're ten in all, so, enjoy, and remember to give me feedback!  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Psych or any of it's characters.

The Gorillaz: Clint Eastwood

Lassiter hovered over a precipice, the endless emerald turmoil sloshing beneath him like a great glass of wicked absinthe, equal parts cloyingly sweet and disorienting, mesmerizing. The chaos of below was vastly at odds with what he felt inside; a strange, placid calmness, not happiness, but gladness. A potential to be happy, like sunshine tucked away in a bag, waiting to be unleashed. The placidness came with the price of uselessness; he wasn't moving forward, wasn't untying the bag. Suddenly, he tired of this suspended animation, it's innocuousness rankling like nothing else, and he jumped from the precipice into the roiling emerald sea, which proved to be nothing more than the pensive stare of Shawn Spencer. Granting him a small, yet genuine smile, he leaned in and returned his innocent, chaste kiss with one of fiery passion. The future was coming on.

Fall Of Troy: F.C.P.R.E.M.I.X.

Large, calloused hands enclosed his own, wide palms warm and slightly slick with the nervous sweat that made him marvel at the detective's ability to wield a gun, when the slightest stressful situation caused such a reaction. Holding tightly, too, as if their strong grip could hold him in place that moment longer, force him to stay, even though the thought of staying in this place, so full of wonderful and painful memories, repulsed him more than he could ever imagine. Of course, Lassiter had never had a clear idea of exactly how much control he held over the fake psychic; and ultimately, that was very little, because first and foremost, he was a free spirit. His sixty-some jobs hadn't lied about his ability to stay in one place - he flitted about from one place to another, from life to life, impacting them all, and then away again, with little regard, but leaving a warmth behind no matter what the situation. However, as he smiled a dry, exasperated smile at the desperate detective, he knew this was one person he couldn't slip away from with a flighty laugh and jaunty quip. So... "Come with me."

OKGO: Don't Ask Me

Victoria, sitting there, so clam and composed and perfect, filled him with a supreme irritation that blew away anything he'd ever felt for a certain pseudo-psychic. The typical, cliched bumping into each other at the supermarket, his basket full of pineapples, her's of haircare products and paper towels. The casual invitation for a drink, the polite insistence, her benign smile and sweating ice tea, it all made him seethe beneath a cool veneer of indifference. His blood thumped viciously beneath his ears, and he felt almost righteous, as odd as that sounded. She still more the necklace he'd given her, and he wanted to rip it from it's pedestal, to throw it to the floor, to remind her that she'd never like it in the first place. Instead, he did her one better; he felt a sharp, vindictive grin take over his face as he casually interjected that his new lover, his decidedly _male_ lover, just adored pineapples, and wasn't that _darling?_

Amy Winehouse: Rehab

Shawn braced his lover's shoulders encouragingly, as he slowly poured a bottle of golden scotch down the drain, it's amber color glinting off the porcelain, winking enticingly as if to say, "I know you'll be back." The fierce surge off not only protectiveness, but possessiveness, he couldn't help - after all, he thought with a benevolent, self-possessed smile, he couldn't allow anything to hold sway over Carlton Lassiter but himself.

Voltaire: Bomb New Jersey

They had, through tedious hours of driving alternatively through vast, endless farm lands and fields of industrial smokestacks spewing black death into the atmosphere, finally arrived in the heart of Trenton, New Jersey. Cursing the case that had led them there, they scanned their surroundings through bleak, slightly horrified eyes, seeing a wealth of undesirables; crouched under a sagging cardboard box on the side of the filthy street, a homeless man begged for spare change, only to be sneered at by passing teens dressed in drab, street-rat clothing. From an alleyway, a leery man in a long, brown trench coat glared, pointedly examining Lassiter's expensive blue suit with envious, greedy eyes; he was obviously a drug dealer. Graffiti was slathered over the rough concrete walls of some of the abandoned buildings, their yellowed, shattered windows hastily nailed over with battered planks of wood. In the distance, they could literally see the line where the highly questionable section of Trenton stopped and the "Capital of New Jersey" section began. A man in a stained wife beater to their right leaned out of his upper-story window to shout, "Fag!". Shawn glanced down at his tight, right-pink T-shirt, and shrugged. "It's hard to be a fruit in the garden state."

Boys Like Girls: Hero/Heroine

When Lassiter was with Shawn, he felt like a hero, because even though the psychic usually had the swooping in, solve the case with his brilliant vision-glory, he always needed Lassiter there, night behind him, to back him up and save his ass when you inevitably got in over his head. But even though he felt like a hero, he'd be so, so caught off guard when after one of those ass-saving, heroic moments, Shawn spun around, bruise already forming on the cheek Drimmer had punched and swaying slightly from being pistol whipped, and slammed his warm, slightly chapped lips into his own. Because he had so many ghosts in his past, so many skeletons, he couldn't even imagine why Shawn would want to try, yet he couldn't deny that every time he saw Spencer smile, he felt like a newborn child. So, even though he really felt like running and screaming, and he wanted to cling to his sinister smile and maintain the hole in his heart he'd been nursing since Victoria, he pulled Shawn in even closer, kissed him back, and allowed only this to fill his heart. He grinned against the younger man's lips; if he was a hero, then Shawn was his Heroine.

Wheatus: Punk Ass Bitch

Truly, he couldn't help the violent glare he was letting off at the scumbag hanging off of a certain psychic's every word, with his swagger and obviously lewd gaze all centered one Shawn Spencer. Of course, the one person in the room he had the indelible urge to smash his fist into just had to be the one, key witness to a very high-profile murder - which meant that they had to remain on friendly terms with a man he'd, upon seeing that smug, slimy smile aimed at the young pseudo-psychic, determined to be a punk-ass bitch with on class, style, social skills or comprehension. He thought, Lassiter snorted derisively in his mind, that Spencer was smiling at him because of the blathering noise pollution tumbling from his mouth! In the end, he couldn't help but inwardly grin when, a few minutes later, Spencer had a vision that ended with solid evidence that the witness was, in fact the murderer, and noticed with even further glee that Shawn's expression mirrored his own.

Charlotte Sometimes: How I Could Just Kill A Man

(This is horrible, and to be honest I'd prefer if everyone just skipped over it...)

When he'd gotten the call, the first few seconds were silence. Then, "Lassie... I killed him." And he knew, instantly, the man Shawn had been seen with, had met outside the station, the one with possessive, odd eyes and firm grips at the elbow, of words whispered in Shawn's ear that made his eyes widen unsettlingly, was the one. The one responsible for the finger-shaped bruises, the flinches and trembles. He quietly stated into the phone, "Hold on, I'm coming." And he, numbly, yet determinedly, started his preparations; called Chief Vick and casually asked if he could clock out half an hour early, and, his shift almost over and the day being a long and hard one, the Chief sympathetically allowed it, bidding him to get a good night's sleep. Leaving the station, he went to his bank and with drew his entire savings, in cash, aware that it looked suspicious but uncaring as, soon enough, he and Shawn would be far away from Santa Barbara. Stamping down the urge to speed off towards Shawn's apartment, he first went to his own house, packing a small overnight bag with one change of clothing and the essentials. Next he stepped into a convenience store, dressed in casual plainclothes, and and bought a container of bleach, black garbage bags and a few meaningless items to throw off the trail. Then, he arrived at Shawn's, parking in the garage, and was instantly chilled to the bone by it's total silence, yet forcing himself to walk, slowly and steadily, to and through the front door. In the kitchen, he found an empty-eyed Shawn Spencer, battered and still clutching the bloody kitchen knife that had been the downfall of the man still leaking crimson fluid onto the previously pristine white tiles. After hauling the body into one of the black garbage bags, he painstakingly cleaned every trace of murder from the kitchen. He hauled the body into the garage and forced it into the trunk of the Crown Vick, before going back to the kitchen and leading the bloodstained, silent Spencer his own bathroom, cleaning him off with a gentleness that surprised even himself. As he dumped the body over a craggy Santa Barbara cliff into the churning waters below, he wondered to himself if there was anything he wouldn't do for Shawn Spencer.

Chris Cornell: You Know My Name

(Do I have the James Bond theme song on my ipod? Yes, sir, I do.)

Shawn had come to love the quiet, simple moments when Lassiter let go of his steely detective persona and just laughed with him, or allowed him to burrow into his strong chest and wrapped his arms around him. Knowing that he had been the cause of that transformation gave him a rush of proud joy that he was hard pressed to match in any other facet of his life. And yet, he couldn't help but admire with a tinge of awe and little-boy worship, those life-or-death moments where Lassiter switched into the man of the law, with keen, predatory, icy-blue eyes and a unerring shot, smooth and deadly as if mercury flowed through his veins rather than blood. Still, the best part of the James Bond-esque Carlton Lassiter was that, when the battle blew over and the threat was eliminated, he would turn back to him, and his Lassie be there, warmth returning to those frosty globes the moment he laid eyes on Shawn Spencer.

Gorillaz: 19-2000 (Soulchild Remix)

Being with Shawn Spencer was like racing through the country side, thumping, happy music blaring through the speakers, alternately deliriously happy and scared out of your mind, with a healthy amount of headaches interspersed for flavor. Still, nothing quite matched that rushing, bone deep happiness that rattled around in your chest, finally released into one of those great, whooping laughs that was more out of sheer joy than any sort of humor. So, even if the insane, ear-drum-bursting volume gave him headaches, and the near-death collisions frightened him down to his core, in the end, it would always be what he chose.


End file.
